Free Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) by Tim Severin Page B

immediately the horse beneath me bucked violently. I
made no effort to stay in the saddle, but let myself be thrown clear, dropping one shoulder as I cartwheeled through the air so I landed unscathed into the soft mud. I had not expected the horse
then to launch an attack. The animal spun round and, as I was trying to rise, lashed out at me with its rear hooves. Fortunately I was still on all fours, and I felt the hooves slash past my head.
Next the horse bolted off for a short distance and turned, whinnying with rage, ready to rush at me. By that time I was running through the muck and climbing up the wooden fence of the paddock like
a frightened squirrel.
    My mounted companions had broad grins on their faces.
    ‘You knew that was coming, didn’t you?’ Oton said. He sounded disappointed.
    Walk, trot, canter, gallop, and stand – the rest of the morning was spent in a series of mounted exercises on a nearby training field. Again and again my companions divided into opposing
teams, rode to the opposite ends of the field, then turned, levelled their lances, and came charging towards one another. At the last moment before collision, the team’s leader gave a great
yell, he and his companions suddenly pulled up their horses, spun round and galloped away, pretending to flee and draw on their opponents. Then, moments later, they would wheel about and face their
rivals again, weapons ready. It was all about keeping formation, controlling the horses, riding knee to knee, coordinating their manoeuvres. The air was filled with excited shouts and commands, the
snorting of the horses, and the thud of hooves. Then, in smaller groups, they rode at straw-filled dummies and either hurled their javelins, or if they were carrying lances thrust and stabbed
before withdrawing to reform and attack again with swords and axes. Finally they divided into pairs and, this time with wooden blades, they chopped and hacked at one another’s shields until
exhausted.
    I took no part in the war drill. Instead I observed, with Osric standing at my shoulder.
    ‘He’s more accustomed to a pony,’ observed my slave. He was watching Ogier who rode his horse, leaning far back, his legs extended straight downward as if he was walking.
Unlike the others, he rode without stirrups.
    I was curious to know how my slave was so knowledgeable but at that moment Hroudland came thundering past us at a gallop, cocked his arm and hurled a javelin. It thumped into the target, dead
centre. He let loose a great full-throated whoop of triumph.
    ‘What about him?’ I asked. I could see that the king’s tall nephew was a first-class horseman. He guided his animal with the lightest pressure on the reins as if he and his
mount were one.
    ‘He’s good, but impetuous,’ Osric answered.
    ‘Then who’s the most competent among them?’ I enquired.
    ‘That one there,’ he replied. He nodded towards a man to whom I had paid little attention the previous evening. Gerin was a taciturn, rather grim figure, a big loose-limbed man with
close cropped hair and hard eyes. Now he carried a plain, red shield and I had noticed his tendency to hang back and watch his companions in their manoeuvres.
    ‘He doesn’t need to practise,’ said Osric, ‘he’s a professional warrior.’
    Hroudland rode up to us. His horse was very distinctive, a roan stallion with dark patches on its neck and rump.
    ‘Time to get you cleaned up, Patch,’ he said in a friendly voice. I was still grubby with mud from my tumble in the paddock. He jumped down from his horse and handed his war gear to
an attendant and pointed towards a low red-roofed building in the distance. ‘I’ll introduce you to my uncle’s main indulgence.’
    Side by side, we walked towards the building, leaving our servants to catch up with us. The rain clouds had gone, and the earth steamed gently in the hot sunshine. Hroudland waved a hand, taking
in the construction work going on around us.
    ‘It’ll be